


As Only A Daughter Can

by Burning_Nightingale



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Diary/Journal, F/M, Father-Daughter Relationship, Fluff and Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-20
Updated: 2012-01-20
Packaged: 2018-01-07 04:40:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1115619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Burning_Nightingale/pseuds/Burning_Nightingale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"For now, I shall commit to this parchment my favourite memory of my father; his smile."</i>
</p><p>Idril writes about her relationship with Turgon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	As Only A Daughter Can

**Author's Note:**

> This piece has a lot of odd quirks, I think. Firstly is the written style; I was going for a cross between diary and written history, the kind of thing a normal person might write if they were asked to write down a story. Also I think the language sometimes sounds a bit odd. I think that's the kind of thing I was going for, showing how Idril isn't really comfortable with writing books (and thinks she'll be bad at it). I don't know if this succeeds at all. I'd really love feedback on a) the writing and style and b) the interpretation of character.

_Havens of Sirion, Year 515 of the Years of the Sun_

The longest book starts with the first word, and that is always the hardest to write; or so my mother told me. Lord Círdan suggested I commit my memories of my father to paper, so that they might outlive those who remember him. I cannot now bring myself to recount the terrible events that plagued us for so much of my life, so I may add them at a later time, I think. But for now, I shall commit to this parchment my favourite memory of my father; his smile.

It was a frequent occurrence in my childhood, or for the first years at least. He and I would play in the gardens, and he would take me places with him, a curious child who could not see enough of the world. He and my mother would often tell me stories; mother’s favourites were the ancient legends of the past, from back before the elves had crossed the sea, and father’s favourites were tales of the things that lay beyond my small childhood experience, in the far reaches of Valinor. My favourites, however, were stories that concerned them. Their childhood, their first meeting, their courtship, their wedding, their life before me. Tales of my uncles and aunts, tales of my grandparents. They would often consent to tell me about these things too. My mother said she had never seen a smile wider than the one my father wore when I was born. I remember nothing of this, obviously, but mother would sigh and say that she fell in love with him all over again in those moments. I would denounce such things as embarrassingly sappish, as is the nature of youth, but I knew little then of the power of love.

A smile seemed to be a prominent feature of many recollections of his wedding day, too. Like all little girls (or all those whom I know), I dreamed for a time of white dresses and shimmering veils and my very own Prince waiting at the altar. Mother described the day in such terms many times over at my eager request, and father even put in a story or two of his own; but he was not so lacking in sentimentality then. I remember a certain occasion vividly; mother became a little teary eyed describing how wonderful father looked, and how happy. He smiled his slow, wonderful smile, a living vision of mother’s words, and drew her close while she laughed at herself quietly. My uncle Findekano, who was seated next to me at the time, told me stirringly, “And you must make sure your groom smiles on your wedding day too, little one, or he shall not be worthy of thee!” I remembered those words on my wedding day, but that tale belongs to a different story.

As I have implied and no doubt you who read this know, the events that led us to Middle-Earth were cold and harsh ones. Father smiled not at all for a long while after we lost mother to the ice, and in the nights at times in my dark dreams I feared his heart had frozen in the long march and that he had forgotten how. But when we removed to the coast he became more at peace; his people were safe and the land became prosperous around us. I think the dankness of those grey, imposing buildings, the darkness, suited all of us for a time, for they mirrored the sorrow within our souls. All except myself, of course, because for a young woman it was a lonely, dreary place, and I missed my bright cousins with whom I had played. But they had long disappeared to the Greenwoods of the East, and I did not see them again for many years. In truth, of Fëalómë I have seen nothing at all since those bright days when we would play in the summer grass; but I have heard rumours. Of him and his uncles Telperinquar will say little; and the fresh faced, mischievous boy I knew has transformed into a stoic, hardened figure, with a veil of sorrow wrapped around his soul and a well of anguished anger smouldering in his eyes. It is almost as if I never knew him at all. At times when I find myself lingering on such things, I wonder if it would be better to not now meet Fëalómë again; for if his bright soul were so disfigured with the ugly scars his uncles are rumoured now to bear, I wonder if I could bear to look upon him at all.

Forgive me, for I have wandered off topic; I was talking of happy things. When my father began his periodic disappearances into the north, I bore them with the suffering tolerance only daughters can give to their fathers. My aunt ran business whilst he was away, as she often stayed for long periods. I believe she and my grandfather were on rather uncertain terms; in any case, she seemed to prefer being with us than with him, and I would not begrudge her it, despite whatever might have happened as a consequence of her remaining with us. Every time father returned, she would accost him for a time alone, and I imagined she was demanding news of his travels. That he never seemed to give, for hers was always an exasperated and irritated expression when they finished speaking. I soon made common cause with her to extract information from him, but he stood firm in the face of our assault. His smile more of a smirk, he would tell us, “You will see, in time,” and other such cryptic phrases.

Eventually we did see, of course. Gondolin in all her exquisite beauty, green fields waving in the mountain breeze and white towers gleaming in the sun. It brings tears to my eyes to think of it; forgive me if any stain the page. My father’s smile when he observed our wonder was a wonder to behold in itself, born of the true joy of succeeding for his people and creating something truly wonderful. I will always remember that smile. It has haunted my dreams from time to time lately; but then so do all memories of happier times.

I have already said that my father’s smile was large and bright on his own wedding day, and mine was no different. I knew in my heart that he still held certain reserves about my marrying a mortal. He loved Tuor like his own son, and yet he feared for my heart. We had disputed on the matter for a time, before I won him over. None of this showed on his face that day. He told me how beautiful I looked, before we walked down the aisle, and how much he wished my mother could have been there. The few times I looked at him during the ceremony, he was looking back at me; his smile was proud.

He made a proud grandfather, too. Always he had time for Earendil; to play with him, read to him, teach him, just to be with him. I was thankful for the respite at times; my son was (and still is) a lively child. He told me one night, after we had read a bedtime story to Earendil and wished him goodnight, that he was glad I had married Tuor. It meant more to me than I could ever express to him. I had always worried that father regretted his choice, though he had made no sign of it. To know that he did not was a balm to my heart.

I suppose it is a blessing that the last time I saw him, he was smiling. Earendil and I were heading to the walls, to get a good spot to watch the sun rise. Father was sitting at the high table in the Great Hall, lords around him, drink in hand. Laughing. I do not know who made the jest, but ever after I thanked him in my heart. Perhaps it was Ecthelion, with his bone-dry humour, or Duilin, playing his stiffly sceptical straight face once again, or maybe it was Glorfindel with his endless supply of quips and welcoming, glowing grin. Maybe it was all of them. But my father laughed the last time I saw him, and that is how I remember him.

I fear I have come to the end of my tale, and now have no astonishing, funny, or clever way to end it. I only hope you will forgive me my mistreatment of the written art form, for I am not a writer by trade, nor a scholar, and I fear this account is written in a less-than-scholarly tone and form.

But I think I like it that way. It gives the words living form from living memory; replaces the dry, dull turns of ceremonious history with a character who unfolds himself from the page through the words of one who knew him best.

Well, I hope that is what it does.

_Signed as the work and written hand of Idril Celebrindal, daughter of Turgon, Lord of Gondolin and High-King of the Noldor-in-Exile._

                                                                                                       _May Eru’s light shine forever._


End file.
